Twelve Days of Christmas
by Anonymous Presence
Summary: [Drabble Chapters] Tom Riddle tries to woo Professor Granger during the winter holidays.
1. Twelve Warm Butterbeers

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone!

Hello everyone! This fic is inspired by the Aftermath of Silence, by Breeze-Riddle, and I hope this silly fic will give her the strength to kick life in the butt!

As you might be able to tell from the title, this is loosely based on the 12 days of Christmas. There is no religious connection so those of you who do not celebrate Christmas can read this. :) The verses won't necessarily mean in a literal sense, as you'll notice, and instead of going one through twelve, I went backwards. Twelve is the beginning of Tom's weird wooing and one is obviously the last. C:

These will all be bite-sized, drabble like chapters. Short and sweet. . . hopefully. xD There will be one chapter per day until Christmas.

Enjoy!

* * *

 _On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me_

 _._

 _Twelve warm butterbeers_

 _._

* * *

Hermione Granger can't really say how she got here.

She just knows she is now sitting among people she knew for a fact that were immutably dead, or some that have a few less wrinkles and a little more color to their hair. Hogwarts still surrounds her, yet now she wears teaching robes, and has been welcomed by the staff just a few short months ago.

She is sitting nearly sixty years in the past, her future a muddled mess. She suppose it is not even in existence anymore.

When she found herself in this time, far into the past that she was surprised the travel had not killed her, she believed if she had found a way to return as soon as she stumbled across time, than perhaps everything would be right.

Only it isn't.

Now she has to deal with another war. She has to deal with new people. She has to force herself not to see dead, lifeless faces, nor recall facts she learned by reading and endless research. She has to deal with a certain Albus Dumbledore, who watches her like a she would be the next dark witch to cause chaos and there is no trace of twinkling trust in his blue eyes. She has to deal with grief; Harry, Ron and all the others she holds dear are so far gone, so far out of reach, they might as well be dead.

And she also has to deal with a particular Head Boy. . . who happens to be the young Tom Riddle— _Voldemort_. She is quite pleased with herself that she can say that name out loud, see his deformed face, and not shiver in fear. Perhaps in revulsion, but she is no longer afraid.

However, now she has to deal with Voldemort while he is still practically sane. That is something she fears.

She can easily understand how the professors adored Tom Riddle. She finds herself begrudgingly engaging in academic conversations, debates even, and it makes her marvel over just how intelligent this boy is more often than not.

What a shame it will be damaged by obsession, greed, and hatred.

Hermione has taken a notice that his dark eyes seem to linger on her. At first she brushes it off as curiosity. Every student is chattering about the new professor; she is a small, young, _woman_ , and yet she proves herself in mere moments of her first class.

But when the marvel wears off, he is still staring.

"We would like to say it has been a wonderful first half of the year," Headmaster Dippet says, bringing Hermione out of her musings. The staff had gathered around, celebrating the end of the first half of the term. They have butter beers in their hand, clinking them around the table in merrily cheer. She reluctantly tips her mug against Horace Slughorn's, who is chattering away about how much the school year has been smooth under the Head Boy's care.

Speaking of the devil, he is seated across from her. The staff had invited the Head Girl and Boy in congratulations.

It is a whole lot of shite, if you ask her.

But she grits her teeth and bears sitting in a room where Riddle has yet to take his eyes off of her for longer than a full five minutes. She just hopes that her magic doesn't stir around in her ire, nor does it show on her face.

She is almost finished her butterbeer with Riddle leans forward, outstretching his own mug and his pale lips pulled into a polite but _sinister_ smile. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Granger."

Her name sounds odd rolling off his tongue. Her muggle name should have been spat.

The glass mugs make a clink as they tap delicately.

"Thank you, Mister Riddle," she murmurs, taking a small sip of her drink, wishing desperately it could have been something a bit more stronger, something with a bit more venom that she can kill him with.

And yet. . .

He still has yet to take his eyes off of her.

.

.

.


	2. Eleven Pixies Swarming

**Twelve Days and Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

So, things won't be picking up until next chapter, but trust me, the wooing does begin to happen. c:

* * *

 _On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

.

 _Eleven pixies swarming_

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* * *

It doesn't nearly feel like Christmas at Hogwarts without Harry and Ron causing mischief every where they go.

It certainly doesn't feel like Christmas at Hogwarts without Hagrid lumbering around either.

The tree is levitated so gracefully inside the castle that she frowns.

Magic is used to string up the sparkling garland, the magical flickering lights, and the dazzling ornaments. It makes the small frown on her face curl to a neutral mask, her mind fuzzy with conflicting emotions.

But then her magic snaps in a hiss and she immediately steps backwards, further down the corridor of a hallway, only to then peek out from the corner as she spots the Head Boy and Girl flickering their wands at the decorations. Hermione nearly snorts as she notices right through Riddle's calm mask that he much rather be with _Slughorn_ than to be surrounded by merrily objects. His magic is nearly rolling off in irritated waves as he glowers at the ancient ornaments he must levitate up and around the massive tree.

Perhaps she can only feel it because she is so in tuned with the boy that it makes her nauseous.

The Head Girl giggles at something and Riddle's frown is more pronounced for just a breathe's moment before his mask is shuttered and he casts his fellow student with a charming, _poisoning_ , smile.

There is a glint in the tree that distracts Hermione from the Head Boy's smiling face that makes her realize she has been watching him for just a moment too long. The glint that stole her attention away is moving and she furrows her brow in slightly confusion. Then in a burst of sparkling dust around the tree, the whizzing objects are knocking Christmas balls and ornaments off the branches and tangling into the garland.

Pixies.

The Head Girl squeaks in surprised, waving her hand to stop the delicate decorations from shattering on the stone floor. A few pixies trill and hover their way. They swarm in a playful mass, nearly a dozen or less, Hermione would guess, and they spark and niggle their way into the Head Boy and Girl's personal space.

Seeing Riddle frown in obvious, open annoyance of the damn pixies, trying to swat them away like the vermin he believes they are, tickles something in Hermione; she cannot simply say what.

The pixies simply flutter around him, relishing in their fun, and tossed the garland around the Head Boy's vein popped neck.

Hermione throws back her head and laughs. It's full and hearty. She can't even remember the time she had done so since the war started.

Riddle's head snaps to her so quickly, she is not sure how he does not get whiplash. His stare weighs on her, confusion, curiosity, and plain annoyance that she has caught him in such a domestic action.

But then he smirks.

.

.

.


	3. Ten Lords a Dancing

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone!

If anyone has read The Edge of Perfect, the blue dress makes a reappearance.

* * *

 _On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

 _._

 _Ten lords a dancing_

 _._

* * *

The Yule ball is in full swing. The Great Hall is decorated like a winter wonderland. Glittering snow is falling from the enchanted ceiling, white birch trees linger around the edges of the hall, and other wonderful charms float along making the entire place pure _magic_.

Hermione can see Slughorn in the back, chatting to an unfortunate student caught in the web of uncontrollable yapping, looking like they much rather be swimming in the punch bowl with Peeves than to listen to another sound out of the Potion Professor's mouth. She cannot say that she blames them, seeing as she too was swept into his fond, yet awful chattering too many times to count in the first few months as a professor.

Many of her students greet her as they pass by; mostly Slytherin, sadly. However she does gather a few nods in acknowledgement from the other houses, and pleasingly so from Gryffindor. She idly wonders if it's her impassive face, channeling to her late Professor Snape that keeps some students away. She suppose that's the case when she catches herself sneering at a few students lingering in the birch trees, snogging. With her wand strapped on her calf because of the impossibility of the form fitting robes, she wandlessly cast a very mild stinging hex their way, wickedly smirking as they yelp. When the students, a Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff, turn around and make eye contact, she makes a 'shooing' gesture and watches with a pleased grin as they quickly scamper off with red faces.

Turning away, her whisky colored eyes catches something. Some _one_.

She is glad that she's wearing sensible wizarding robes. If she closes her eyes, sometimes she can still feel the satin sheen on the periwinkle dress and still smell the sillage of her perfume that she borrowed from Lavender Brown in a future she is not sure is in existence anymore. When she opens her eyes again, she smirks.

Why is she glad that she wore robes?

Tom Riddle is standing off the left, surrounded by his Slytherin classmates, staring at her. They are all stitched in the most finest robes, looking in her general direction and the stench of irritation tickles her nostrils. The young Dark Lord looks as if that he wished that she, too, was draped in fine silks with bits of forbidden flesh—as _forbidden_ as this time period could get—peeking from finely tailored garments like the other girls from all houses twirls around.

Instead, she is wearing a midnight, long sleeve, crewneck robe that shimmers just enough as she moves. The color compliments her pale skin, especially the slope of her neck. It is fastened in the back with a row of tiny, glistening, beads sitting in the perfect arch of her spine. When she had reluctantly bought such a piece, of course the madam of the boutique would not let her step one toe out of the shop until it was fitted to perfection.

She watches as his face turns into the impassive polite mask. His lips move, and then so do his fellow knights—fellow lords. They're moving in measured steps and as the seasoned soldier that she is, she is poised just right, her magic crackling around her in aid, as if in a warning, ready to strike at any moment.

She watches them stiffen.

Riddle's nostrils flare.

But then his classmates begin to dance; a waltz what have been bred into them.

It takes her a moment to realized that she isn't in a war zone, and the school boys are not Death Eaters. . . not yet. She shuts her eyes, trying to shut out the echoes of screaming, the copper odor of blood, the sight of glassy lifeless eyes.

She steels herself and forces her eyes to open. That war was a long time ago. The silence is far behind her. Now she is here, for some reason or another, forced to live her life though the past.

She does not miss the fact that each boy, each paired with a female Slytherin classmate, moving to surround her inconspicuously is from a family of the Sacred Twenty Eight. There is Avery, Nott, Malfoy and his pompous robes, Flint, Black and his silver gaze, Rosier, Lestrange, Crouch, Rowel, Travers, and Yaxley. Anxiety claws through her system and she forces herself and breathe.

Riddle is like a panther, and she like a rabbit. He stalks closer to her, the smile on his face is as fake as Headmaster Dippet's sincerity. Suddenly his frown is back and his eyes snap over to a Ravenclaw boy who was staring at Hermione unabashedly. Riddle's face turns colder and colder until the boy shivers, glances over at the Head Boy, pales, and then flees.

It take hers a moment to realize that Tom Riddle is not angry at her choice of wardrobe, but at any male attention she apparently is gaining.

She almost rolls her eyes.

He looks satisfied as he stands before her, holding out his hand to take her own. His lips are scorching against her knuckles in a tender greeting. "Professor," he murmurs. "You look absolutely _divine_."

She desperately suppresses the shivers threatening to take over a moment or two of her charade of indifference. In the corner of her eye, she notices the swaying of the other lords, moving in a haphazard circle to cut them off from the rest of the population, to give them privacy.

Or to keep the other male students from gawking at Hermione's lovely figure.

She has yet to rip her hand away from his. When she moves in the slightest, his fingers tightens around her skin.

"Would you care to dance?" The question is a beckoning fly trap. It is wide, posing the essence that calls only to her. Perhaps it is his magic that she feels sparking against her skin.

His eyes tells her she's right.

Alight and pure, raw power simmer in his midnight blues eyes.

She suddenly realizes her dress matches.

.

.

.


	4. Nine Threstrals Grazing

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

* * *

 _On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

 _._

 _Nine thestrals grazing_

 _._

* * *

Tom Riddle is like an itch that she desperately needs to scratch. And she does and does and does, to the point where her skin is raw and bleeding. All around the castle, he follows. With his eyes or on his feet, his presence is always lingering around Hermione.

It is irritating as much as it is frightening.

What does he want with her? Why hasn't the curiosity that had plagued the student population has yet to fade for him?

His stare is so thick, she feels like she is slowly drowning. She blissfully finds solitude if for a brief moment in the crisp cold air outside of Hogwarts. She does not look around, over her shoulder, to see if there is a young Dark Lord following.

The way her magic tremors in warning under her skin confirms his lingering existence.

The Forbidden Forest greets her with silence and she takes a deep breath of icy air. It feels sharp in her lungs, but it is worth clearing her mind.

There is movement in front of her, and Hermione finds herself at the edge of a clearing, in front of a herd of thestrals. They look at her with their haunting white eyes, but easily allow her to walk further into the clearing with them when she bows in greeting instead of flinching in disgust.

A foal has wandered closer and a smile curls on her lips, and Hermione holds out of fingers and waits. The sound of leaves rustling behind her makes the smile vanish and aggravation hums through her blood.

"Why have you been following me?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers ghosts over the oddly velvet skin of the curious young thestral. When she turns around, she sees him standing at the edge of the clearing. Snow dusts his hair, glittering when the bits of sunlight trickles through the treetop canopy. "Ten points from Slytherin. Students should be able to come to the conclusion that the Forbidden Forest is _forbidden_."

Riddle steps closer, his eyes skirting around the beasts lingering around Hermione. He doesn't answer her question, only stopping just barely out of reach of a thestral. His eyes stray on the young creature tickling Hermione's fingers before snapping his gaze to her.

"Can you seem them?" he asks, a challenge thinly hidden in his tone.

"Can you not?" She counters and he grins like something wicked. Her nose flares as she can feel his magic crawl along the forest floor, as if happy of her tone like it is a bite. "Why are you following me?" She asks again and the young Dark Lord sighs wistfully.

"Following?" He tsks. "I was merely taking a stroll when I happen to see you disappear in the Forbidden Forest. Curiosity took over the best of me, it would seem."

"Curiosity?" she laughs in disbelief. He throws her a charming smile and she is immune. "You should go back to the castle, Mister Riddle."

"Tom," he says firmly. "You may call me Tom."

She blinks at him for a mute moment.

". . .Tom," her lips move slowly, her tongue tasting his name. It is unusual.

She's not sure if she likes this new development.

"Perhaps," he starts to slowly step forward, clearing from the creatures surrounding them. "I may call you Hermione."

Hearing the sound of his voice wrapping around the syllables of her given name causes her to shiver.

This is a dangerous development.

"No, you may not."

.

.

.


	5. Eight Elves a Baking

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Wah! I will never update from my phone again. If you have read the last chapter and noticed some _very_ out of place, then please forgive me. I fixed it.

This chapter may not seem very interesting, but Tommy boy starts doing things for Hermione.

* * *

 _On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

.

 _Eight elves a baking_

 _._

* * *

She is doing rounds at night for Filch when she sees him next.

"Miss Granger?"

She is ready to change her name, her appearance, and teach at Beauxbatons as his voice grates of every fiber of patience she has left. Instead of hexing him, she swivels around, her curly hair whipping around her arms as she faces him. She desperately tries to not look exasperated as Tom Riddle strolls over next to her with a pleased, suspicious grin.

He smells of the soil of the Forbidden Forest and. . . and. . .

Her eyebrows crawl up her forehead.

. . . smells of gingerbread cookies.

He hooks one arm with her, as if he is a dapper young man escorting a lady. He gives her his cleverly crafted smile that doesn't work on her and begins to steer her down the hall. She is mildly surprised at herself that she is allowing him to do so.

"If you please, Hermione."

His voice is smoky and takes a key intimacy that makes her tremble just for a moment before she regains some control, but Hermione frowns at his familiarity. He has been calling her by her given name since they had clashed in the forest, to the point where she is ready to send the killing curse straight through his heartless body.

"Mister Riddle," she begins. She can feel the ache between her eyes as her irritation grows heavy and thick in her mind. "For the last time, you _will_ address me as Professor or Miss Granger. One more slip and I will be forced to take away points and give detention—with _Professor Dumbledore._ "

Riddle's expressions sours quickly and she feels as if she has won this round. But instead, Tom clenches his jaw and stops their walk when they are in front of the portrait to the kitchens. Hermione feels sluggish with confusion as he tickles the pear and the door hinges open.

There are eight elves all around, clambering about. A sweet, toxicating smell assaults her. The scent so potent that she easily feels her teeth beginning to rot.

The house elves have powder dusting their ears, and what she believes is chocolate dripping from the counter.

"Oh, miss Hermy and mister Riddles be here!" One of them exclaims, ignoring the cinnamon smudge on their fingers. "We almost ready! That we are!"

Hermione finds her voice quickly, but it sounds strained. "Ready for what?"

"Fors a feast!" another elf squeaks merrily as they dollop a bit of cream on top of what looks like decadent chocolate cake. "Fors a sweet feast! All for you, miss Hermy! Mister Riddles says so! He does!"

Tom feels elated by her unhinged jaw.

.

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	6. Seven Frogs a Singing

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

My Grammy sings this carol mentioned in this chapter ALL. THE. TIME.

* * *

 _On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

.

 _Seven frogs a singing_

 _._

* * *

"Oh! Hermione dear!"

The voice calling her makes her stop abruptly and she lets out a long breath through her nose. Reluctantly she turns towards Professor Slughorn, watching him hobble over towards her. When he finally does reach her, he is huffing.

"Hello, Horace," she desperately hopes that irritation doesn't tint her tone.

"Goodness m-me," the Potions Professor wheezes. "I have to stop eating so much crystallized pineapple."

She highly doubts that will ever happen. "Was there something you wished to speak to me about?"

Slughorn smiles brightly, wiping sweat from his brow. "Oh, yes my dear! Filius is rehearsing the Frog Choir! I was hoping you would join me and the other professors since is it your first time!"

A small, little smile curls on her face; he honestly means well. "Of course; lead the way."

Horace Slughorn grins merrily to her, offering his arm like the charming man he think he is. She plays along, hooking her arm into the crook of his elbow and they walk down the moving staircase towards the Great Hall.

"Is there a particular carol you enjoy over the holidays?" Horace asks her conversationally.

A genuine smile curls her lips upwards as she recalls a distant hazy memory. Her parents would stand in the kitchen, blasting Christmas carols on the radio. Little Hermione would sit on the counter watching her mother mix a batch of decedent sugar cookies. Their professions as dentists made them frown upon sweets, but exceptions were made for the holidays.

"My mother was particularly fond of Love Came Down At Christmas," she looks far away, completely unaware of the slight sheen of tears welling in her eyes. Instead of wallowing in her sudden slaught of storming emotions, she clears her throat and glanced at her fellow professor. "Well, the Yule always brings happiness in the smallest forms."

They enter the Great Hall as the students practicing for their rehearsals are lining up, some holding enormous toads. The large Christmas tree sparkles behind them in a beautiful backdrop. She can even spot a few glowing pixies fluttering around where she has to hide her snort. The children are still chattering as some professors have already gathered around, waiting patiently. Flitwick spins around, spotting the two and claps it hands together.

"We're so glad you can join us, Professor Granger! Thank you Horace, for fetching her," he is grinning ear to ear. She is quite sure he is very proud of his beloved students and the Frog Choir—the joy is radiating from his entire being. Then his gaze land on something just past Hermione's shoulder. "Oh, and our esteemed Head Boy is here as well!"

Neither she nor Professor Slughorn notice Tom Riddle lingering like a dark, eerie shadow behind them.

Horace turns around, clearly enamored with the Slytherin. "Tom m'boy! Come, come!" He gestures wildly and Hermione suddenly wonders if he had been poisoned with a love potion for Tom Riddle with the way he nearly gazes at him like a proud father.

Riddle's mask barely wavers in subtle hint annoyance as his Head of House pats him heartily on the back.

"Professor Slughorn, Professor Granger," he nods in greeting to them both but Hermione is quick to turn her eyes elsewhere. "If you'll excuse me," she hears Tom say. Her eyes flicker to the straight line of Riddle's back.

"Wonderfully bright, that young man is. Right Hermione?"

She glances at Slughorn and she swears she sees stars in his eyes. She repress a snort.

"Absolutely," she hums absently, her eyes lingering as Riddle leans down to Flitwick, murmuring something. When they step away, his dark gaze meets Hermione's and his smile is like something wicked.

Something like sweet poison.

She breaks the contact and moves along with Horace, greeting the other professors as they pass by; Hermione's fake greetings feels very forced.

She doesn't like that she can feel Riddle's eyes on her.

Professor Dumbledore looks up and Hermione puts in less effort to seem pleasing.

"Albus," she greets.

The Transfiguration Professor's eyes seem just a tad bit less twinkling. "Hermione," he says with a polite smile.

They stop towards the edge of the gathering, much to her insistence, even though Horace much rather be in the middle, surrounded by his fellow professors. She loses sight of Tom Riddle. Filius taps his wand on the stand, clearing his throat and the students' chatter comes to a halt. With a swish and flick of his wand, the Frog Choir begins to perform, the seven frogs croaking when appropriate along with the carols.

Hermione has a fond memory of Neville Longbottom's toad, Trevers, croaking along with them on her first day as a Hogwarts student. She does not hold back the soft, fond smile on her lips as she gazes almost through the choir, as if peering into a memory from so long ago.

Song after song, the contentment she has felt is punctured. She begins to feel more and more uneasy as Riddle appears in her sight and stands at the edge of her vision, though far enough that she doesn't have to make conversation nor acknowledge him without seeming rude to the other professors. She is still trying to understand just _what_ it is he is up to for the past couple of days, and it doesn't seem to be ending. What is the most unnerving of them all, is that he has yet to look away from her.

She keeps her eyes steadily on Flitwick's wand, hoping that she can focus keeping her magic from hissing at the Head Boy in warning.

The Frog Choir finishes their last song and she politely applauds along with the rest of the crowd. She cannot recall a single verse that they just sang, her mind miles away.

"We have one more song!" Flitwick calls out, twisting around again and his cheery eyes seek out, landing on her. "Our lovely Head Boy, Mister Riddle, has informed us of a favorite Christmas Carol! And it would be my pleasure to give you a piece of home, Professor Granger. This is your first Christmas at Hogwarts and we all wish it the most memorable one of all!"

Her face pales a bit and her head whips over to see Riddle smirking devilishly at her.

What in the name of Merlin is he playing at?

She doesn't see Filius spin around again. She doesn't see him tapping his wand on the podium. She doesn't see the students taking a deep breath. She doesn't see the toads wiggling in excitement for another song.

All she sees is his dark, sparkling eyes.

 _Love came down at Christmas—_

Her heart stutters to a stop.

 _Love all lovely, love divine—_

Her lips part mutely.

 _Love was born at Christmas_ —

Her vision begins to blur with tears, one traitorously sliding down her cheek.

 _Stars and angels gave the sign._

Riddle's victorious smirk melts off his face as he watches Hermione bolt from the Great Hall.

.

.

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	7. Six Mischief Nargles

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

* * *

 _On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

.

 _Six mischief nargles_

 _._

* * *

No one speaks to her about her embarrassing display of emotions in the Great Hall. She is just relieved it was only the professors and the choir there to witness it instead of the entire school.

And of course, Tom Riddle himself.

Flitwick stammers his profounding apologies, and it takes Hermione at least seven times to insist that he is not to blame. She enforces that it was a lovely gesture, but she is a fickle thing.

She hasn't directly seen Riddle since. Though he has been lingering in the shadows like an afterthought that refuses to be completely forgotten, much to her dismay.

Hermione's heels click against the stone floor as she walks across the halls distractedly, her eyes trapped in a distant memory.

Harry and Ron are by her side, Ginny is ahead. They are all laughing over something so small, so trivial, snow still dusting their hair from the outdoors. If she remembers correctly, they had just visited Hagrid and gotten themselves wrapped in a snowball fight.

The thought seems childish, but it is a treasured memory. It doesn't show Harry's thin frame and tired eyes from his nightmares. It doesn't show Ron looking over his shoulder in paranoia every moment or so. It doesn't show Ginny's haunted face from the lingering effects of Voldemort's horcrux.

She cherishes the moments when they can be carefree and playful, even if it were only for a moment. War wasn't far from their minds, but they were able to ignore it for just a little while.

And it was bliss.

She remembers Luna running up to them, easily falling into step with Harry, her absurd Christmas hat was far too large for her head.

Her blue sparkling eyes fall on Ginny and she calls out, "Watch out for the nargles! They are very fond of mistletoe—"

—the memory dissipates as Hermione's feet are suddenly immobile and her entire body lurches. Before she can become an indignified heap on the ground, she manages to steady herself. Her memory is wiped away as her eyes fly skywards, glaring at the white mistletoe. Honestly, she has been able to dodge them all over the castle as five have already invaded her at every step. But now she is stuck on the sixth because of her silly little daydreams! She idly wonders if Luna would turn the corner in her ridiculous hat and babble about her beloved nargles.

But she knows that will not happen.

A sudden lump sits in her throat and tears are stinging her eyes. Hermione huffs irritably at herself and forces the surging emotions to wither away when her fiery eyes land on Tom Riddle.

Anger is slowly boiling her blood at the sight of him.

Again she notes that he is taller as her head tips back and he is looming over her with a perfectly crooked smile that she damn well knows the female population of Hogwarts swoon over his impressively straight, white teeth.

It just antagonizes her.

"Why, Professor Granger," his very breath on her forehead is far too irritating for his own good—just when did he get so damn _close_? "It seems that we're stuck." His tone sounds free of worry and filled to the brim in amusement.

Her face pales dramatically and again her eyes sweep upwards to stare at the mistletoe branches. Then she dumbly lowers her gaze to their feet. When she focuses back to him, he has the most smug smirk on his face.

Why that infuriating little snake!

There is no one in the hallway to come to her aid and she watches with wide eyes as Riddle leans a bit closer. His magic is cracking around her, and her own is buzzing instantly, almost in a hum in anticipation.

Wide, doe like eyes watch as he leans closer—closer ankd suddenly they are breathing the same air. Her breath comes out in shaking puffs and Tom's eyes give away his calm facade. His body heat is burning her and she feels him inch even closer, connected just so slightly as their noses brush.

The contact makes her magic soar.

As if Riddle can sense it, his eyes fall shut and his nostrils flare, sharply inhaling. Her entire body is quivering as he tilts his head just a tiny bit more.

"I've been waiting for you," his whispers almost inaudibly, his lips just barely brushing hers as he speaks. There's a tremor in his voice, vibrating with an unnamed emotion.

The gentle skim of the lips is enough to unlock the mistletoe's hold and Hermione places her hands on his chest and gives him a mighty _shove_.

He stumbles back before gaining balance, his face slightly flushed and eyes wide. But Hermione ignores his startled expression and her magic cracks in anger around her.

"This _game_ ," she spits out venom in every letter, hoping that she has toxins to kill him. "Has gone too far!" Her chest is heaving. "Beyond far! I do not understand what delusional thoughts are numbing that incredibly smart mind of yours, but for the last time; I am your _professor_. Do _not_ touch me. Do _not_ speak to me unless it is appropriate. I have no qualms in involving the Headmaster and your Head Boy privileges will be evoked!"

She ignores something that curls in her gut. Perhaps it is fear, it would be the easiest explanation. He is Voldemort. So many good people, wizards and muggles alike, die because of him. Him and his disgusting hatred that plagues his entire being.

But there is a small, tiny voice in her head that tells her she actually likes the attention, the lengths Tom has been striving for, and she is undeniably curious to know _what_ is behind these romantic gestures—

She shakes her head.

This is Voldemort! Seduction is manipulation.

She almost bares her teeth like the lioness she is when Tom takes the most smallest steps forward.

"Does. . . does it not please you?" His voice is light, nearly an air of a whisper, almost with genuine shock that reflects his confusion and it clouds his exceptionally handsome face. The emotions wavers ever so slightly before he turns into a dark, stony facade. "I apologize, Professor Granger."

And with that, he turns around, storming down the hall.

.

.

.


	8. Five Goblin Ring

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

This was actually the first verse that was easily converted for Harry Potter themed parody if you will. I was singing Christmas carols obnoxiously with my sister and I continued to say 'five goblin riiingsss!' instead of 'five golden rings!' And I seriously mean _obnoxiously_.

* * *

 _On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

.

 _Five goblin rings_

.

* * *

She has not seen Tom Riddle since then, other than in passing of the Great Hall at meals. The sea of students was the only barrier, if at all brief, between him and her. But since most of them had left for the holidays, there is no longer a buffer.

Not a matter, Hermione assumes, because of the holiday, they have no paths to cross.

It doesn't help that she has been in her quarters most of the time, and she argues with herself that she is _not_ hiding. But every time she has ventures out, he is nowhere to be found.

She can't tell if she is grateful for the absolute solitude or seek him out and demand what all of this foolishness is truly about.

The witch sighs, leaning back in her chair, shutting her eyes and wills Tom Riddle out of her mind. She can not play his game. She won't.

 _Tap tap tap._

Her eyes snaps open and she sees an owl hovering outside of her window. Quickly getting to her feet, possibly thinking the little package it has was from another professor, seeing as she had gotten two other gifts early, she lets the poor thing inside. The cold air makes her shiver when she opens the window and she wastes no time to force it shut.

The owl hoots affectionately as Hermione rubs it's cold head and offers treats after the owl places the package on her desk.

"Hello. Now what do you have ther—"

Her voice lodges in her throat as she stares at the all too familiar scripture of one young dark lord.

She did _not_ expect it to be from him.

An ugly scowl finds its way on her face as she glares at the small package. There is a folded piece of parchment with her name on it, written with care and precision. Her eyes falls shut as she takes in a much needed calming breath. As she exhales, her shoulders slumps and Hermione just feels so incredibly exhausted.

 _Send it right back_ , her mind hisses, but her slender fingers linger over the package. A fingertip grazes the wrapping and before she knows it, her wand is in her hand casting diagnostic spells and revealing charms.

It isn't cursed.

Her heart flutters.

She claims that it is relief, as her hand could look like Dumbledore's in the future.

The one who was dead.

Mild irritation sits in her bones. Ignoring the letter, she carefully unwraps the parcel. Sitting innocently in the wrapping is a dark green velvet box. Dread pools in her stomach. But as nimble fingers cautiously pry the top open, she gasps.

It clatters on the desk as Hermione drops it immediately and steps back as if the wretched thing is actually cursed. There, sitting on a bed on black satin sits five rings. Three are gold and the remaining two are silver. They're delicate, detailed and if she leans in close for inspection, she sees that they were goblin wrought. The rings have a range of rubies, clear diamonds, emeralds, and opals done so tastefully, yet she feels sick.

She lunges at the parchment, hoping for some explanation. _Merlin_! There are _five_ incredibly expensive, incredibly beautiful, jewelry merely a few lengths away.

She could _touch_ them.

She could _take_ them.

It is a good thing jewelry means so little to her.

She idly wonders how on earth did he get one ring, let alone five. Perhaps Riddle had killed someone for them; she would not be surprised in the slightest. Though she might be horrified of the lengths to acquire such a gift to give her.

Her whiskey eyes scan the letter, seeing artful script and unable to make sense of it. She breathes in deep, staring at her given name at the top.

 _Hermione,_

 _It seems that my affections are not coming across. I would hope that these will convey the amount of conviction and sincerity when I say I wish to—_

Hermione suddenly crumples the letter and her hands are shaking.

She snaps the top shut and shoves the bloody box into the wrapping sloppily. She then turns to the owl still perched at the corner of her desk, her only companion.

"Please," she begs. "Take it back!"

She doesn't want this. His attention, his determination to get to her, his bloody rings!

She doesn't want any of it.

Nothing.

Her heart is pounding so fiercely against her chest, she is afraid it will burst at any second. Her magic crawls on the surface of her skin, unable to control the emotions creating an ugly, catastrophic tornado in the deep roots of her entire being.

As the owl flies away with the package in its talons, Hermione watches the until it disappears from sight, her body tremblingly.

"What are you trying to do to me?"

.

.

.


	9. Four Hooting Owls

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

I'm so sorry about being a day late! Good news is that you guys will get TWO chapters today! Long story short I was sick. There is a longer story, but whatever. C: I'm complaining right now. Lol

So anyway! Here is the chapter for yesterday and the next one will be up soon!

ALSO some of you have asked WHY Tom is interested. Since I roughly based this off of The Aftermath of Silence, you understand a bit of what is going on in his head if you read it, though I will make it clearer towards the end. . . Well, like even closer to the end, see as we have three chapters left.

Thank you to all the guests who are reading; I like to personally message everyone who left me lovely words but since I cannot respond individually, I just want to say to you guys thank you so so sooo much and I hope you enjoy this weird little story!

Sorry about the super long AN! Enjoy!

* * *

 _On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

.

 _Four hooting owls_

 _._

* * *

The entire day is wasted with Hermione pacing back and forth in front of her fire place in her personal chambers. Just when she is about to be driven mad and run far far away from the wretched school where it houses a damn young dark lord who has taken a keen interest in her, she takes a deep breath, slumping into her chair and stares out the window in a daze.

In the icy, unforgiving air, she spots owls flying about and she frowns. The poor things; they must be exhausted with all of the festivities.

She cannot help but to remember sending the little owl away yesterday after it had dutifully made the trip to find her. It would be safe to assume that the owls will be hungry.

She grabs the tin of treats from her desk and leaves her office with a determined gait; she hopes it will dull her irrational guilt and ease of mind of Tom _bloody_ Riddle.

The tin of treats float behind her as Hermione walks, _or stomps if you ask any of the portraits she passes_ , to the owlery. When she pushes the door open, her feet immediately stop and ice freezes her blood.

Tom Riddle is there, attaching a single letter to an owl's leg. He slightly pauses, glancing over his shoulder and his dark eyes meet hers.

Riddle's face is impassive.

All of the owls swivel their heads when they see the treats trailing behind her. She has yet to move and Tom turns back to the owl, who dutifully hoots at the quiet command from Tom's lips and takes off into the night.

"Evening, Professor Granger," his voice is so curt she flinches.

She wonders if anger is simmering under his skin.

"Mister Riddle," she manages to find her voice and she swears it does _not_ sound breathless. "Good evening."

She plucks the tin of owl treats from the air and immediately she is swarmed by the owls. Some even had the audacity onto land on her shoulders. Laughing quietly, she shoos them away. "Come now, everyone will get a piece! Just be patient."

Time trickles by and Hermione almost forgets the young Dark Lord is still there, but she can feel his heavy stare. Keeping her spine straight, she continues to give each owl a treat and a rub on their belly or a scratch under their beak.

"You're not sending anything out?"

His voice makes her skin prickle and she whips around, seeing him near the door.

"No," she says flatly. She is about to turn around in dismissal when he suddenly whistles. Four owls fly down, which Hermione notes that she has yet to give a treat to them, and settle near him.

"These owls are fastest," he says and the critters preen and puff up a bit of the complement. "Perhaps you can contact your family."

Family—that's right. . . The family she supposedly has in this time. But why would Tom Riddle say such a thing?

Instead of being angry and spitting fire, her throat tightens painfully. Her eyes are hard as she levels a glare at him instead of letting them betray her sorrow.

She isn't sure anymore of the game he is playing. The soldier tells her that Voldemort has no sense of compassion. She isn't quite sure this is a lure to attack at her heart. But this isn't Lord Voldemort yet, is it?

No, it is just Tom.

He turns to leave, walking away from her immobilized body, not waiting for her reaction. . . Perhaps it isn't not a game at all anymore.

Her glassy eyes turns to the four owls, all of different species and colors. Her eyes land on a little brown barn owl and she smiles as it affectionately nibbles at her outstretch fingers that she doesn't even remember moving.

Later that night, after she cries over the fact that she has no one to write to, no one to share this burden with, she calls over the four owls. She slowly attaches a small note to their leg and sends them off into the night.

Later that night, Tom hears a little tap at the window of the library in his secluded corner. He recognizes each owl as they greet him with an open, surprised expression. Each carries a tiny letter, and they all say the same thing.

 _Thank you, Tom. Happy Christmas._

.

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.


	10. Three Red Quills

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

* * *

 _On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

.

 _Three red quills_

 _._

* * *

Her office is a bit cluttered for her liking, but she ignores it.

Tom Riddle is plaguing her brain and often renders her brilliant mind useless.

Through her constant worrying, she has gnawed through at least three of her quills. Her eyes flickers down to another broken quill with a frown as ink stains her fingers. With an irate huff, she furiously swipes her hand over her lips, pulls back, and glares at the black ink smudges along her skin.

While the thick haze of confusion surrounds Riddle, Hermione also has to get through the Holidays that are far too cheery for her to handle after war, and also deciding on gifts for her fellow professors.

She had been writing out Christmas cards when her quill had snapped in her musings. And that was her spare!

"Honestly Hermione! Pull yourself together!" She chastises herself.

A knock on her door pulls her angry muttering to an abrupt stop.

She holds her breath; her magic tingles.

"Professor Granger?"

His voice is both irritating and oddly pleasant at the same time.

"Come in," she croaks out.

The door creaks open, but upon seeing her, the man pauses in the doorway. "Are you. . . alright?" Tom Riddle asks her, his eyes straying on her lips, causing heat to flood to her cheeks. "You have a bit of. . ." His low velvet voice trails off, and he uses his long pale fingers to gesture to his mouth.

Oh Merlin! The ink!

"Y—yes!" She stutters before waving her hand in a flourish, the black smudges disappearing from her face and fingers in a light shimmer of magic. "I apologize. . ." She mumbles awkwardly. "Horrible habit, I'm afraid. I keep chewing my quills." She glances at the pile of broken pieces.

Tom's dark eyes follow hers to the pathetic pile that represents her sanity at the corner of her large desk. He remains quiet and Hermione braces herself.

Finally, "You sent them back."

His statement is quiet and smooth. She forces her eyes to settle on his and keeps hold. She's not sure if he is referring to the absurdly expensive rings or the owls last night.

"I did."

His magic is swirling in his gaze. "Why?"

"Mister Riddle," she sighs his name in a tired, exasperated breath.

His eyes flash in anger like a crack of lightning before it disappears.

"Is it. . . due to the fact of my poor lineage?" His voice is as sharp as a whip and Hermione's eyes widens.

" _What_? What on earth gave you that impression?" She retorts, her eyebrow arching slightly at the sheer hypocrisy that would have made this situation be, as bizarre as it already is. But then she shakes her head. "No, no. It is the fact that I am your _professor_ and you are my _student_."

"I am graduating this term," he bites out.

Hermione thinks he sounds like a prudent child.

"Mister Ridd—"

He slams his hands on her desk, rattling in dead quills and his anger finally sparking over from his pores. His nostrils flares and his magic spreads through her office and she nearly gasps.

But he wasn't suffocating her.

Instead she feels her skin shiver in goose flesh, her magic dancing over her skin.

"Tom," he insists with a growl.

" _Tom_ ," she forces out through clenched teeth. But then she sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose to alleviate the pressure of irrational aggression. She finds herself unable to get words past her lips. What does she truly want from him?

 _Leave her alone._

Her magic shutters at the thought.

"I have never met a witch like you." Tom is speaking again, his voice quivering and his magic rolling over her skin to meets hers. "Someone who is like _me_. The moment you stepped into this school I could feel your _magic_. You're just like _me_."

Hermione feels fire spitting up from her throat as she bares her teeth like the Gryffindor from her past. "I am _not_ like you."

Is she? Yes, their magic is similar. . . _Dark_. She came to terms with the fact that her magic leans a little on the darker side a long, _long_ time ago.

But she is not a murder. . . She's killed on a battlefield before. . .

But she's not. . .

She wants to bang her head on her desk. _Repeatedly_.

Tom is watching the internal battle, his shoulder leaning casually against the door frame, though his body stiff with thinly veiled irritation.

"What can I do—"

She quiets him with her hand. "Tom," she tries again. "I don't want you to do anything. I am exhausted, trying to manage with loss, dealing with overly jolly holidays, and juggling all of this," she gestures to her desk where a pile of student essays are graded and waiting to be returned. "I. . . I c—can't handle this . . ." Her voice trails off at the end and she keeps her stare on her poor broken quills.

She hears his footsteps shuffling closer and her magic spikes in warning just for the sake of her sanity. Her hand is waiting for her wand just in case and she keeps her stare fixed.

But his magic is calm.

Instead of an attack, Riddle—Tom places a small bundle that is wrapped in brown paper and tied with a gold ribbon. When she is about to open her mouth and protest with every fiber of her being, he says, "try not to break them."

When she looks up abruptly, he is already out of her office, his magic leaving like the ocean for low tide.

She turns towards the little small bundle and sighs heavily and waves her hand. The simple brown paper is whisked away and the gold ribbon untied itself carefully revealing three lovely Gryffindor red quills.

Hermione leans against the chair and refuses to touch them.

She breaks down and uses them not ten minutes later when she snaps her last quill.

.

.

.


	11. Two Chocolate Frogs

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Ohmygoodness! We're almost doneeeeeeee! I Ann thinking about doing a companion piecein Riddle's POV, but I have no solid form in my mind yet. It may be a Christmas fic for next year!

* * *

 _On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

.

 _Two chocolate frogs_

 _._

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Hermione Granger finds herself in the Leaky Cauldron. Staying in the castle will drive her to the edge of sanity and march to the Head Students quarters and either hex Tom or . . . or . . .

She frowns bitterly and sips on fire whiskey in hopes to dull her senses and dilute the rush of memories and the accompanying emotions the revolves around the issue of Tom Riddle

He's a complex wizard and his intentions are unclear and while normally she rises to a challenge, accepts it, embraces it even, she finds herself utterly drained and unable to handle him.

And what the bloody hell was he on about yesterday in her office? She is _not_ like him!

When she hears the chair scrapes next to her and the way her magic simmers she cannot help but to release an unlady like groan and shoots a glare towards her unwanted companion.

 _Seriously?_

Tom actually laughs. "Is that a way to greet someone, Hermione?"

She really wants to flip him off or hex his handsome face. He is all fake today—politely nods to the bartender, a very slight, charming smile on his face.

Instead, as he is about to order, some irrational part of her makes her push over the fire whisky and turns to face him. She watches in a slight trance as his pretty eyebrows crawl up his pretty face.

" _Professor_ ," Hermione tries to hiss, but it sounds more like a slur. Tom then let's a real smirk smooth across his mouth and takes a slip on her whisky, though she watches as he seeks out the slight print her lips left on the glass first before drinking from the very same spot.

She shutters and busies herself by flagging down the barkeep for another drink.

They sit like that for a moment, or it must be longer because they finish two other drinks. Alcohol is certainly effective on the young dark lord.

His smile is more. . . alive. Genuine. It is the soft curve of his lips and the depths of his dark eyes sparkling to her in a merry bliss.

 _Companionship. Tom Riddle wants a companion; someone who understands,_ hermind supplies, though she keeps it from passing through her lips.

As exhausted as she feels, the holidays draining her very core, she returns his mirth expression. The young dark lord then gently sliding over a very small wrapped item.

"It's not quite what you are thinking," he interrupts the wary expression that warps the contentment from her soft face.

Her eyes flicker downward and land on a chocolate frog wrapper. A bubble of disbelief laughter manages to escape through her lips, probably loose from the alcohol.

It is such a simple gesture, yet a wonderful thing at that. She briefly wonders what sort of card will be awaiting her, as her memories flutter to Harry and Ron, trading cards and mocking each other over who had the most. She shoots her gaze upwards to the once again stoic Tom Riddle. Her lips pull easily into a gracious grin.

"I remember these!" She giggles deliriously, taking hold of the candy. Her fingers don't quite function the way she wants them to, and when she finally rips open the wrapper, the frog immediately leaps out, as if she was a first year again, trying the devious candy for the first time. "No!" she squeaks, her reflexes slow from the alcohol as she almost literally leaps across the counter in a failed attempt catch it.

Tom abruptly laughs so loud that it makes her jump at the booming volume. His magic spikes along with his mood and Hermione doesn't flinch. She barely notices the other patrons of the bar stiffening in response to his magic, but to her it feels entirely different, nearly leaning closer to him as her own magic quivers in response.

When she swivels around in her seat to him, he is holding another chocolate wrapper. "Try again."

And so she does.

This time, Tom is there to help her as she wildly clasps her hand together to try and catch her treat.

"Little bugger!" Hermione slurs a bit. Tom's hands encase her own as she finally snatches the magical candy.

The connection, the skin on skin contact, makes her magic riot and something that she cannot explain, or refuses to, stirs inside of her chest.

Tom is looking at her with wide, blown eyes as he breathes in, _heavily_. Hermione cannot help but to shudder as he leans in, pressing his forehead to her own, unable to pull away.

"Tom," she whispers weakly. "N—not. . . not here. . ."

He is quiet at first, simply breathing deeply with his eyes screw shut.

Then, "Meet me at the head dorms. Tonight," he murmurs.

She pretends she doesn't shiver as his words ghosts over her skin and right to her soul.

.

.

.


	12. A Horcrux Bearing His Soul

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone!

The end of this chapter is a little open ended, but I hope you all enjoyed this plotless fic as it was just a stress relief from life. This was just a chance to expand different writing styles and be a little more loose with characters. I apologize since there isn't much of back story to this, especially about Hermione and her magic, but I hope it doesn't deter many of you.

Lots of love! Thank you all so much!

* * *

 _On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me_

.

 _A Horcrux bearing his soul_

 _._

* * *

She doesn't know how she comes to stand before his door.

Her knuckles barely brush the smooth dark wood before it swings open and Tom is standing there, his hair tousled like his hands of been running through it in a nervous, hidden, _tick_ , and his eyes are wide in pure shocked she is even there.

Of course, she is a bit late. She sat at the bar for a long, long time, sipping on more alcohol and then downing a sober up potion just when she made up her mind.

Apparently, she enjoys Tom's presence as well.

They have yet to say something to each other.

She doesn't know how his hands are so warm for someone who is supposed to be heartless when they find their way to her cheeks.

He walks over to her in two long simple strides. Her eyes fly up to meet his before they roam across her face. He lingers on her freckles, then especially on her lips, he takes in the slope of her nose and the gentle curve of her chin. His entirely inappropriate smooth hands brush over her hot cheeks before she intake sharply.

She doesn't know how his lips are brushing against her own.

He suddenly is there and she is breathing in the spice of his breath and she is nearly suffocating at the riot of his magic colliding with her own. They both embarrassingly make a sweet and sinister sound when their magic _finally_ melts together.

It is entirely different from the forced meeting under the mistletoe. She was still in denial then; still swimming in confusion. But instead, she simply lets go.

She finds herself kissing him back. Her own hands involuntary burry into his dark hair and she appreciates the softness. He guides them backwards into his room, unable to release her from his lips.

She doesn't know how they have become so incredibly, gloriously naked and haphazardly strung over his large bed.

Perhaps it is the way his hands and lips continue their quest to find more and more flesh to touch, to taste. He finds the ugly, angry, purple scar left from a past and a future and is no longer reachable to her. His eyes linger upon it before searching her own gaze.

When they do meet, he gently, cautiously, places a tender kiss at the end of the scar.

Her magic quivers.

As his own reacts in delight, Tom runs his tongue completely over the scar, causing the witch to arch her back from the bed—and she refuses to acknowledge the throaty sound she makes.

When he pulls back, his eyes lock onto her. "You're so beautiful, Professor Granger," he hums.

She immediately bristles. "Do _not_ call me that _now."_

His smirk tastes like bitter dark chocolate.

His lips soften into a smile, still licking and nibbling her own. "Tell me what you want. Your wishes. Anything. _Everything_. I will give them to you." The wizard practically sounds like he is begging.

Hermione is quiet, drawing lazy circles on his forearm and returning the sweet, dark kisses. What does she want? Anything? Perhaps to go home, with Harry, Ron and everyone that was dead would be alive and live like there was no war.

But that is impossible.

Or is it?

She looks at him, really looking into his dark eyes. She didn't quite know the rules to this game. . .

But perhaps she will learn.

"I want you," she quietly whispers. "All of you. Your very soul."

The silence is tense, his magic bristling in hesitation. When she begins to think that it would be impossible for him, Tom slides off the bed, taking his warmth with him.

Rejection clenches her gut.

But then his wand flies to his hand and he is murmuring and casting spells on a chest across the room.

She is half raised from the bed on her elbows when he turns back to her. Her eyes drop slightly below his waist before her face heats up and snaps her stare back to his face.

Of course he's smirking.

However the expression softens and hardens at the same as he crosses the short space between them, his warmth greeting her when he returns to the bed.

She almost doesn't notice it until he takes a hold of her fingers, his thumb smoothing against her palm. "Wait," she mumbles, her other hand pressing against his hot skin. "What if I want to destroy it?" She shudders. "All of them?" She asks boldly.

Tom's magic roams across her body as he leans in to kiss her after the most briefest reluctant moment.

"If that is what you wish," his murmurs against her lips, slipping the ring on. "Happy Christmas, _Hermione_."

The horcrux sits heavy on her skin.

* * *

.

.

.

 _fin_


End file.
